Somewhere in this world lives the man who crushed me by raping me when I was 4.

There he is, living his life, free and clear, not giving a single thought to the life (or most likely, lives) he destroyed just to get his rocks off. To me, my rape was the primal trauma that formed the rest of my diseased and disturbed life, but to him it was just another Tuesday at the Spa.

Or maybe not. Maybe to him it was an extra good day because of that sweet opportunity that had fallen in his lap and how good it felt to cum really, really hard from that sweet pedo action. Maybe that was a banner day for him.

He must have felt like he won the lottery.

And he knew he would get away with it. Nobody believed kids back then. If I had told someone, I would have been the one who got in trouble for making up dirty stories to try to hurt an aduly. I would have been brutally shushed into silence on pain of severe punishment and forever being known as that “dirty boy”.

That’s why I talk about getting away with evil by doing the unthinkable. At that point in time, society’s desire to think things like my rape don’t happen would have been far too strong for an adult to fight, never mind a four year old child.

So for my rapist, this was not a risky act. This was, I can only presume, something he did whenever he could, and got a thrill from getting away with it.

I can only hope he never had kids. Or access to them.

So somewhere out there, my rapist lives, his crimes unknown. Or perhaps he has died in the interval – after all, that was forty years ago and he was at least an adult so that means he is probably at minimum sixty and quite possibly a lot older.

After all, the Spa was an exclusive club for middle class men. So he might have been any age at all.

Live or dead, though, he got away with it, and who knows what else. Even if I was his one and only victim (unlikely), the truth is there is no chance he will ever be brought to justice for the life he ruined that day in 1977.

Previous to the attack, I had nearly drowned because while I knew I was supposed to stay out of the deep end of the pool, I had no idea that there was a shallow edge around the pool, and so I followed that edge into the deep end and everything was fine until I turned around, fell off the edge, and into the deep.

Luckily, some stranger saw thing, dived in, and saved me.

Maybe it was the same guy who raped me. It’s certainly possible. Maybe he felt like I owed him. Or maybe having my helpless body in his heroic and manly arms gave him such a massive boner that he felt like he just “had to” act on it.

Newsflash, men : Erections don’t justify a thing. Nor do blue balls. True story.

Needless to say, my father was extremely grateful to the man who saved his youngest boy’s life and who might – MIGHT – have been about to be his rapist.

That brings up the whole subject of my father, and where the hell he was when the rape occurred. Why did he leave tiny four year old me in an adult sized shower stall – big enough for four men to shower at the same time – for the time it took for the gentleman in question to wreck my life forever?

For that matter, why the hell did he take me to the Spa with him in the first place?

I honestly cannot think of a completely innocent reason. It’s an action that makes no sense. Even if there was a very good reason for my Dad to be taking care of me alone at that point – like the rest of the family was off doing things I should not be around or would be a pest if I was around – why on Earth did he take me to this all male Spa which was more or less identical in facilities to the “normal” part of the one gay bathhouse I have been to?

He could have taken me to all kinds of normal kid places. Like Rainbow Valley, or the mall, or the park, or especially the beach.

But no. He took me to the one place where I would be surrounded by adult men in various states of undress then left me all alone in one of the stalls.

Bitch set me up. It’s the only answer that fits the facts.

After all, this was the Seventies, and all kinds of worthless sexual rules were getting discarded. It was a time when people were strongly encouraged not to pass judgment on how other people got off.

And my father has always been ambitious.

Maybe I was offered up to someone higher in the food chain than him with whom he wanted to curry favour.

Sure, that seems evil beyond imagination now, but hey…. it was the Seventies.

If so, he’s gotten away with it too. I couldn’t ever prove anything I have said tonight. I have no idea who my rapist was. I have no memory of anything about him. I wouldn’t even recognize his face.

That brings me to the last thing I want to talk about tonight : what would I do if I came face to face with this man in the proverbial dark alley? ^[1]

Kill him, maybe. But not in a state of rage. I don’t feel rage towards him. Perhaps I should. Perhaps if I did, it would be a sign of recovery because it would mean that I was more in touch with my id.

But at the moment, no, I don’t feel rage toward this man.

I feel loathing. A deep, dark disgust that is well beyond sanity and which could easily push me into committing horrible crimes upon this person.

I’d want to drown him in a lake of the toxins he put into me and watch him die knowing (because I would tell him) that he knew why he was dying and why he deserved it and why there was absolutely nothing he could do to save himself because his fate was sealed back in 1977 when he hurt me and gave me that which I would use to destroy him utterly until there was nothing left of him at all, not even bone.

Or maybe I would destroy him another way by destroying his reputation in the world and then watch as he becomes a pariah and loses everything, and then has to live with the knowledge of why.

Either way, I would destroy him. I am not happy about that but there it is.

So he better hope I never find out who it was.

Because my darkness would drown him.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.